


Peace and Cool Water

by lysanatt



Series: In the Shadow of Your Garden [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-10
Updated: 2010-11-10
Packaged: 2018-01-23 19:21:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1576655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lysanatt/pseuds/lysanatt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The war is over, but Kingsley still can't sleep at night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Peace and Cool Water

**Author's Note:**

> Possibly triggering for PTSD-sufferers (contains very mild memories of war and DH deaths).

There are times when Kingsley regrets. Not very often, but it happens.

Mostly it happens during those cold and lonely nights when he wakes up, sweat-drenched and half-way choking on his nightmare, entangled in blankets and in the impressions he usually suppresses so well: Moody's one eye, all there is left of him. Tonks's sweet face, a calm mask in death. Remus' gaunt, pale visage, expressionless, finally free of the curse that cursed his life, too. War has stamped its image into Kingsley's mind, and no matter what he tries, short of erasing it, it never fades. War is a scar on his mind, and using magic to make it disappear feels disrespectful to those who lost their lives for the world that Kingsley now rules.

Sometimes he regrets. He regrets that he was not amongst them, those who cannot remember any more; those who now rest in peace, somewhere, in another world, perhaps. Survivor's guilt, they call it, and Kingsley can manage, or so he tells himself. Just like everyone else who was there, fighting, staying alive. He can manage. Aurors always do. Although he does no longer carry the badge, his experience is a wall, a stronghold, protecting his inner core. He's a hermit crab, carrying his shield with him.

In a rustle of damp sheets and remaining dreams he waves his wand in the dark, cleaning the bed and the air of the nightly disturbance. Tomorrow, he swears, he will go to the apothecary and purchase something, anything, any potion that will give him a long night's undisturbed, peaceful sleep. He needs it.

Just like no one else, he has a world to rule, people to take care of. This cannot go on.

 

The next morning, Minister Shacklebolt is the second customer to enter the apothecary in Diagon Alley. The first is someone he knows.

'Professor Longbottom. I didn't think I'd find you here.' It is the middle of the term. An unexpected encounter, this time of year. Kingsley smiles at the sight of the newest Hogwarts professor, but the smile fades as he sees the strained expression, the lines marring the young face, the exhaustion.

Neville looks up, and the pain in his eyes is the same that Kingsley suspects might be find in his: the agony of losses and survival, hidden under a layer of practicality and everyday chores.

'Minister.' Neville manages a weak smile.

Kingsley does not have to ask. Instinctively, he knows what is wrong with Neville Longbottom, even before the shop assistant pulls down a jar with a small paper label on it. _Draught of Peace_. He does ask anyway, having seen the tired, long-lasting pain in Neville's eyes. 'Winter makes it hard to sleep,' Kingsley says, careful not to tread too close, both in person and in his sudden curiosity. 'It seems I am here for the same reason.' He nods in the general direction of the shop assistant and the jar.

'Oh. Oh.' Neville nods. There is a pause before he looks up again, his eyes strangely young and honest. 'Nightmares. I can't... It's difficult to face them alone.'

'Me neither.'

'But you're so-'

'-human.' Kingsley have had that reaction before. As if his calmness, his size, his ability to fight and stand his ground remove the ability of having feelings. Yes, he was once a warrior, but not one without emotional depth, or without regret. Kingsley, in turn, wonders what it is Neville sees in his dreams. His dead comrades? Voldemort on the peak of his power, the moment before his fall? The disgusting reptile that Neville so bravely battled? Or perhaps, like Kingsley, the world for which they now are responsible? Their world, once more in flames, more people dead; peace shattered? He tilts his head, looking searchingly at the young man in front of him. 'You, alone? I thought you had-'

'No longer,' Neville interrupts abruptly, uncharacteristically hard. 'She couldn't take them either, my dreams. Got tired, too, I suppose. Of me.'

Surprised by the sudden sharpness in Neville's voice, Kingsley flinches. So much hidden anger. He wonders briefly if he is doing the same too often, this feeble hiding of little, gnawing hurt-mice which suddenly expose themselves, outside control; squeaking, wanting out in the open. 'I am sorry, Professor. I didn't intend to pry.'

' _Neville_ , please.' Neville's mouth forms an apologising smile that almost reaches his eyes. 'And I didn't mean to snap. You're the Minister and all... It's just that I haven't slept for three nights. Minerva told me to take a week off and get some rest.' This time the smile makes his eyes light up, for a second removing the traces of his nightly battles. 'As if it makes it better to know that the sixth year Gryffindors are handling my precious plants for an entire week. That doesn't exactly support any kind of peaceful rest.'

Neville's smile feels like cool water on Kingsley's troubled mind. Perhaps Neville's abilities for taking care of plants extend themselves to people as well? 'Neville, then,' Kingsley says and smiles, too; before Neville turns around, taking the small vial the shop keeper hands him. Staring at Neville Longbottom's well-defined back and shoulders, Kingsley feels as if Neville is precisely like that: cool and soothing but, like water, slipping through his fingers.

Kingsley cannot sleep at night, and the images that keep him awake are unpleasant and disturbing, but he is no coward, no one would ever accuse him of that. Anyway, he takes a deep breath, as if the outcome of the moment matters. Acting upon this odd feeling; this sudden thirst for a soothing coolness he didn't know of until a minute ago, he holds up a hand, wanting to make the world stop. ' _Neville_ ,' he says, not certain how his sudden suggestion will be received, 'would you like to have dinner with me tonight?'

Kingsley thinks that he could get used to seeing Neville Longbottom's wonderful, soothing smile.


End file.
